Tindómiel
by daiquirip
Summary: She was born to the seaspray, given to Men for safekeeping. This is her story as she learned to live amongst humans, prejudice, jealousy and war. Based loosely on Shakespeare's Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Used to be Saerwen
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: don't own nothing of Tolkien's**

Prologue

_Second Age 2575_

It was quiet.

Indeed, the shutters were no longer panicking in the empty gaping windows. They hung limply, lifeless. The candle flame barely wavered as the quill paused on its way to the inkpot.

It was far too quiet.

The quill returned to the parchment, hesitant. It quivered at the gentle caress as its ink was gently teased out. It danced, twirling and leaping, leaving behind a trail of black tears. With a shudder, it stopped, hovering in midair.

Silence.

Slowly, the quill lay down on the burnished surface of the wood, quietly weeping and trembling. The chair moaned as it scraped across the floor. With a swish, a heavy cloak disappeared from the rack, only to reappear balanced across sound shoulders. The hilt of a dagger vanished into steady hands, the blade cutting a lone moonbeam.

Step.

The door grumbled open. Dim firelight poured into the room, joyous and blissful but with a snap, the door swallowed. The cloak hem washed along the ground, the dagger point peeking curiously from within with each alternate step.

Muted murmuring.

The steps paused at an arch, in which it seemed the sun burned. Red and gold skipped up the pillars, along the edges, into the darkest corners. The dagger point flashed crimson, as if after its first kill. The cloak hem edged closer to the arch, closer, closer –

Cough.

As if in a dream, the cloak flew open, and the dagger blade soared towards the assailant. A broadsword fled out of its scabbard to meet the dagger. The small blade skimmed down the length of the sword with a metallic hiss and clattered, useless, to the ground.

The murmuring ceased.

"Bring them in," commanded a voice. The guardsman picked up the knife and grabbed a fistful of the cloak. He flung the trespasser to the feet of the owner of the voice and bowed respectfully. "My lord."

The lord stood silently, gazing down at the quaking figure. With a sigh, he crouched down. "My child, why are you here?"

The child started, and a pair of hazel eyes flew open. "Uncle Aldor, I … it's too quiet. And dark." The lord smiled.

"Brother-daughter, I have business here to attend. Go with Héowa now." The serving woman bustled forward and led the girl away through the arch. As they faded into the darkness, the lord's smile slipped away. "She is _peredhil_, is she not?" came a soft voice behind him. He turned. Blue eyes met brown. "Aye, she is."


	2. The Hanging

This be the first (proper) chapter and rest assured that you probably won't be getting much other than culture and context. Characters, nah. Later.

**Chapter One: The Hanging**

The small boys came early to the hanging.

As the earth lurched towards the sun, they came, trickling furtively from inside the huts, their bare feet cautiously testing the newly fallen leaves. Almost forgetting to breathe, they warily filtered between the ancient wooden hovels, picking their way towards the gates of the Golden Hall, where the gallows stood waiting.

It was a rimy morning and an empty wind whined and wound its way around the deserted gibbet, the ropes flapping limply, stained with the deaths of countless men. Dust swirled as a draught pervaded the landscape, groaning a dark lament and sending shivers down the boys' spines. Even their souls were chilled in the black breeze. They stood, filthy paws grasping the ornate gates, waiting, mesmerized by the ambiance of impending death.

One of the younger boys recklessly began to tap on the giant gates with a dry twig and pulled a hunk of stale bread from the tatters of his tunic. Gnawing furiously, he bent the sapless twig against the steel and it snapped, sending a shower of arid powder into the face of one of the older ones. Bellowing with rage and far less pain, the older boy punched him in the face and seized his bread. The other boys sniggered as the injured child nursed his face and ago. Made bold with pain, he snatched a craggy stone from its home in the earth and threw it at a seedy mutt, who turned tail and fled back to the village.

In the village, the peasants were stirring. Sighs wavered in between the fissures of their homes, littered with muttered curses and mumbled profanities. The blacksmith's apprentice lit the fire and pumped the bellows. Soon, smoke was rising from the stone house.

At the smell of the smoke, the village girls slipped from their homes, shivering in the bitter dawn. Drawing their worn woolen shawls tighter around their bodies, they traipsed wearily down to the river to fetch water. The river was pewter grey, the current twisting and curling the white foam, which bubble merrily. The women gingerly tested the water and drew back from the fluid ice. With a collective sigh, they hitched up their coarse grey skirts, unconsciously sucking in the piercingly cold air as the harsh wind tumbled amongst their ankles.

The bells rang. Startled, some women dropped their buckets, groaning as they were swept downstream, out of reach. Straightening their skirts, the younger women turned towards the village and the dirt path leading towards it, incessant with their mindless chatter. The old women formed a close-knit group a respectable distance behind, as the young women were prone to throw disdainful looks and jibes. They shook their heads, no doubt muttering that the girls needed to find themselves a husband and settle down with a family.

Further up the path they were greeted by the raucous bellowing of the young townsmen, catcalling and leering. A few of the raunchier girls drew back their cloaks, braving the toothed gasps of air, of which the shocked titters of their mothers and grandmothers were drowned out by a roar of approval and appreciation.

As the last of the women passed, the men fell into conversation, whilst treading hazardously across the parched leaves. Somewhere at the front, a scuffle broke out, emerging from a heated argument between father and son-in-law. Their surrounding peers grunted impatiently as the belled tolled for the second time, more urgent and anticipating.


End file.
